


Double

by yeaka



Category: Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga (2020)
Genre: F/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:13:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25520386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Sigrit sings.
Relationships: Sigrit Ericksdóttir/Lars Erickssong
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Double

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Eurovision Song Contest: The Story of Fire Saga or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The breeze is strong, and it snatches her voice away—she hums beneath it, secure in that belief: no one else can hear and judge. Not that she fears their judgment. She knows the villagers doubt her—doubt _him_ —even her own mother sometimes gives her that withering look like she’s wasting her life, even though she works her quiet job and does everything she _should_ be doing. She just also does what she _wants_ —crowds together with Lars in his father’s basement every chance she gets, because there’s nothing in the world quite like making _art_ with Lars.

Lars is _amazing_. His craft is so well honed, and every song he writes touches her, even _Ja Ja Ding Dong_ , though she knows that’s his biggest regret. For the most part, Sigrit is content to sing Lars’ words to Lars’ melody, matching Lars’ voice. 

But every once in a while, especially when Lars is in one of his special modes where he’s holed up in his room, likely composing for hours on end, Sigrit likes to explore her own ideas. She knows her tunes aren’t quite as commercial as Lars’—they’ll never garner the success that she truly believes he can reach. But they express what’s inside her. Her mother, conversely to everything else she’s told, says she should sing _those kinds of songs_ more. Her mother doesn’t understand Lars’ greatness. 

Sigrit does. She wanders aimlessly about the hillside, beginning with a few bars of _Volcano Man_ , just to build her confidence. It’s not the same without Lars’ bold percussion. When her throat grows sore from straining around English words, Sigrit finally slips into her native tongue, and the words come quicker that way—the rhythm changes, stretching and slowing, and she sings her ballad in Icelandic to the emptiness around her. 

The wind kicks up her hair, scattering whisks across her face. She turns towards it, fingers tingling against her palms, fists clenched—she wants to _belt it out_ but still can’t bring herself to. There’s a tremour in her voice. It’s partly the newness of the forbidden song, partly the loneliness of creating art without her partner at her side. She was built for duets. _She was built to sing with Lars._ No matter whatever others say, she’s never doubted that. 

Even just thinking of him evens out her voice, and the song finishes strong, poignant. She’s wandered around the rocky cliff face where the elves reside, and she quiets to a gentle hush as she rounds on their houses. Her gifts are still sitting there for them, waiting to spread joy.

Except now the doors and windows are open, though all were closed when she first knelt down and poured out her heart to them. That heart skips a beat.

_The elves were listening._

Sigrit fumbles through excitement and paralysis. Overwhelmed with honour, she gives them a graceless bow. She doesn’t know what to do. She gushes to them, “Thank you—thank you for listening! For always listening...”

“Sigrit!”

She nearly jumps out of her skin. For half a second, she thinks they’re calling her, the voice laced with earnest and affection—but then her senses come rushing back and she recognizes Lars. 

She turns to see him coming up the pathway. He lifts his arm to wave to her, smiling handsomely. Sigrit gives the elves one last, “Thank you!” And then she rushes to her volcanic protector man.


End file.
